


Play it close to the vest

by Mix Stitch (Synph)



Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, M/M, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-09
Updated: 2012-04-09
Packaged: 2017-11-03 07:40:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synph/pseuds/Mix%20Stitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim and his family are already the main suspects in a series of serial killings involving employees at their company. Are they going to be the next victims as well?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Play it close to the vest

**Author's Note:**

>   * This is the great big commission I've been working on all weekend for [Kyr](kyrdwyn.tumblr.com) and I dare say I'm ridiculously pleased with this story and how it came out. Expect to see more of this AU because it's marvelous and Dick and Tim definitely still have things to do in this verse. Thank you very much for commissioning me, Kyr!
>   * Beta credit goes to [Jill](birdbitch.tumblr.com) who had the tough job of dealing with my aversion to punctuation marks in dialogue. 
> 


[ ](http://s74.photobucket.com/albums/i245/idiosyncra_z/?action=view&current=drakeindustriesnewspaperclipping.jpg)

Tim Drake is a great many things.

He is an obedient son, a college student, and the heir to his family’s business empire. One thing that he isn’t is a common criminal. That’s why, when a couple of Platinum Flats police officers show up at his apartment early one Wednesday afternoon and whisk him off to the station for what can only be an impromptu interrogation, Tim decides to play up to the reputation that he has with the uninformed public. Murders or no murders, Tim is a Drake and he has no interest in playing the victim for a bunch of harried cops trying to break a case.

“Why exactly am I here,” Tim asks when one of the police officers that had ushered him into an unmarked police car outside of his apartment complex tries to get him to sit down in one of the hard-backed chairs in the small interrogation room. He glances around the small room with a scowl on his face and crosses his arms over his chest when the dark-haired officer continues to try and get him to sit in the damned chair. “Do I need to call my lawyer?”

The officer in front of Tim --the one that seems like a rookie on the force due to his age and the freckles dusting his nose-- fidgets and frowns at Tim. “This is just a routine round of questioning that we do when there’s been a series of homicides like this,” he insists. “It’s not because we suspect you or anything.”

One side of Tim’s mouth quirks up in a sardonic smile and he shakes his head at the rookie, fighting hard against the urge to chuckle at the absurdity of it all. “You should probably get your superiors in here before you start spilling state secrets or something.”

The rookie cop turns bright red until Tim can no longer see the pattern of freckles against his skin and then quickly tries to smooth things over with him. “Detective Grayson will be in shortly,” he says to Tim in a rush of words that is nearly unintelligible. “Can I get you coffee or something to drink while you wait?”

Tim raises one of his eyebrows as the officer standing in front of him. It’s such an obvious attempt to get his DNA that Tim is half tempted to just offer up his blood right then and there to see what the officers would do with it. However, there are several reasons why that wouldn’t work (one of the main ones being the fact that Tim’s DNA is not even remotely human) and Tim settles for resting his left hand on the top of the chair that he was urged to sit in while he fixes the fidgeting officer with a disdainful look.

“I’d like a bottle of water,” and here Tim rattles off the name of some expensive brand of mineral water that a police department is unlikely to have in supply since his mother has to order her cases in from _Italy_ of all places. “Unopened, of course. With a straw.”

It isn’t often that Tim plays up the fact that he’s supposed to be the city’s equivalent of Paris Hilton (never mind that he’s never drank mineral water willingly in his life and has no interest in carrying around a little yappy dog in his suitcase), but for once he is thankful that the general public expects him to be just like his mother’s public persona.

The young officer blinks at Tim as though he isn’t sure that he heard the other man correctly. “Wh-what kind of water do you want again,” he stammers, green eyes widening to the point where the expression seems exaggerated and slightly comical. “I-I’m not sure I heard you correctly and--”

Tim repeats the brand name again. Slowly. “You think you can remember that?”

The officer stammers and nods. “P-please have a seat,” he mutters, heading for the door as fast as he can while trying not to look as though he’s running away from Tim’s small smile. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Tim doesn’t believe that for a minute, but he’s not going to complain if the water gets to him after Detective Grayson does. After all, none of the police officers thought to try and take his cell phone away from him. Tim sits in the chair that the nervous detective had pulled out for him and pulls his cellphone out of one of the pockets in his jacket so that he can fire off texts to the Drake family lawyer, one Kate Spencer.

[ ](http://s74.photobucket.com/albums/i245/idiosyncra_z/?action=view&current=ScreenHunter_43Apr082105.jpg)

The door to the interrogation room swings open at the same time that Tim gets Kate’s last response a few minutes after the nervous rookie detective had left.

Tim takes a second to reply and then turns around in the chair to watch as a tall man with messy black hair and a detective’s shield pinned to his chest walks into the room while carrying a pile of manila folders and a cup of coffee. He’s attractive enough in a tired sort of way and Tim would have to be _dead_ before he managed to ignore the way the older man’s wrinkled trousers still manage to accentuate his strong legs.

“You must be Detective Grayson,” Tim says, leaning back in the chair so that he can watch the older detective try to arrange the files on the rickety old table and look menacing at the same time. “Are you supposed to be the good cop or the bad cop?”

He smiles at Grayson once the detective is seated across from him at the table and isn’t surprised when the other man narrows his eyes in a glare. Everyone does that when they see Tim’s media smile --the one that Janet Drake coached him to be able to do on command when reporters and other undesirables started to ask questions that had no answers. No one ever believes that it’s real, but no one has the guts to question Tim about it.

Grayson shuffles the files on the table around restlessly before he opens his mouth to address Tim. “I’m both,” he says smoothly, fixing a neutral expression on his face as though Tim had somehow _missed_ the glare from moments before. “You’re Timothy Drake, correct?” He doesn’t wait for an answer and pushes on as tension makes his accent even more evident. “Do you know why you’re here?”

Tim shrugs, keeping the motion casual, and quickly counts seven folders on the table in front of him. Seven folders for seven murders and if the blabbermouth officer is right, they’re going to try and place the blame squarely on him. But Kate is on her way and if there’s one thing that Tim can do well, it’s following her orders.

So he stalls.

He smiles again and watches with no small of glee as Grayson’s eyes narrow in another glare. “I assumed you folks needed some donations to the police department,” he says, crossing his legs at the ankle and assuming as earnest a look as he can manage while mentally grinning inside. “Was I wrong?”

A vein starts throbbing near the corner of Grayson’s left eye and when Tim breathes in through his nose, he can almost _smell_ the other man’s frustration. It’s only been a few minutes, but the other man is close to snapping on him. It’s got to be some kind of world record considering Tim is only stalling and not seriously trying to impede whatever investigation the Platinum Flats police department is trying to pursue.

“Who were you texting when I walked in?” Grayson says in clipped tones, crossing his arms across his chest as he stares right into Tim’s eyes. He’s looking at Tim differently now, as though he’s picked up on the one thing that most other people miss because they only look at his (lacking) height and his slight frame: that Tim is an actual threat and while Tim isn’t expecting Grayson to go for his service weapon, it’s still a worrying enough change that he finds himself trying to think of a way to get out of the interrogation room without getting arrested first.

And then Tim hears the rapid-fire staccato sound of stiletto heels on linoleum and he recognizes the sound of Kate’s heavy and purposeful steps instantly. This time when he smiles, it’s the real thing. “My lawyer,” he announces at the exact moment when the doorknob for the interrogation room starts to turn. “And she’ll be very interested to know why I’m here as well. I hope you have a good answer for her.”

Grayson sputters softly as Kate Spencer walks in with her briefcase and an unbelievably pissed off look on her face. He doesn’t seem able to find the words that he wants to say and rightfully almost _cowers_ from Kate when the older woman glares down at him with her chin thrust out aggressively.

“Is there a reason why you have my client in an interrogation room?” Kate says, the sound of her anger coming out harsher due to the Gotham accent that never really goes away (and _that’s_ why Grayson’s accent sounds familiar). “Are you arresting Mister Drake or accusing him of a crime?”

Grayson grits his teeth and looks away from the angry lawyer to where Tim is still sitting and looking at him as though he’s never seen anything more interesting in his entire life.  “No,” the detective mutters and that’s more than enough for Kate who turns to Tim and gestures for him to stand up.

“Try talking to my client when you have an actual crime to accuse him of,” Kate barks out over her shoulder as she makes to shepherd Tim out of the cramped interrogation room. “And next time, I _will_ be present as well.” She holds the door open for Tim and taps her toes impatiently when her client lingers in the doorway.

Tim can’t help himself. He glances back at where Grayson is sitting at the table with one long finger hooked in his collar and tries to ignore the feelings that his instincts are giving him about how suitable a partner the older man would be.

Detective Grayson is in the middle of a murder investigation. A murder investigation in which Tim and his family are the prime suspects. Any and all biological imperatives can wait until Tim can go outside without worrying that he or his parents will be arrested on a whim to make the police department look good.

But still, there’s something about that man…

* * *

The Sunday after Tim’s botched interrogation in the Platinum Flats police department seems to start out like any other. Tim gets up with the sun at minutes to six in the morning and wastes no time pulling on a pair of running shorts, a tank top, and his sneakers before looping the lanyard with the keycard for his building and his credit card behind plastic around his neck.

His morning looks on par to start the same as every other morning, with a brisk jog around the section of the city where he lives and a quick stop off at a local bakery for breakfast. And while he’s running, he most definitely will _not_ be thinking about Detective Grayson the way he has been all week.

Of course things go horribly wrong.

_Of course_.

There’s an accident early on his regular route around town and while it’s not big enough that the ambulances had to be called, it’s still large enough that it blocks the street where Tim usually jogs.

“Damn it,” Tim mutters, jogging in place as he glances around the nearly empty street in order to figure out another route that he can take. He presses the pause button on his MP3 player and carefully pulls the earbuds out of his ears so that he can cock his head and listen to the sounds around him.

Jogging around the wreck is possible. However, when Tim notices the two large men getting out of their respective vehicles while scowling at each other, he rethinks that path. It’s early in the morning and he doesn’t want to chance getting caught in a fight.

Going back home to his apartment isn’t an option either. A morning jog has been Tim’s traditional way to start his day since high school and just because there’s an accident on his main route, that doesn’t mean that he’ll just _give up_.

Tim turns in the direction of the massive park that sits in the center of the neighborhood, puts the earbuds back in his ears, and takes off running along the worn cobblestone path as though someone is chasing him. (Although with the way that the murderers have been picking off people higher and higher up in the company, there might very well be someone following Tim to kill him off as well).

Ten minutes into his new path through the park, the feeling that he’s being followed strikes Tim again. He stops dead in his tracks near one of the rest areas at the center of the park near an ornate fountain and glances around the copse of dense forest growth as though he’s expecting an armed assailant to burst from the bushes at any moment.

“It must have been the wind,” Tim mutters aloud, turning his head so that he can slowly take in his surroundings. “Damn, I’m getting paranoid.” He shakes his head and laughs quietly at his paranoia but then out of nowhere--

A hand grips the top of his left shoulder and Tim’s body moves on instinct and adrenaline alone as he reaches back to grab his would-be assailant’s arm and pull them over his shoulder in a throw that wouldn’t be as well-executed without his considerable strength. 

“What the hell!” Tim blurts out when the adrenaline rush dies down and he realizes that the person that he’s nearly tossed clear across the rest area is none other than Platinum Flat’s own Detective Grayson. His face goes bright red, but he doesn’t so much as offer the other man a hand up. After all, it could been worse… He could have accidentally lost control over his claws and then there wouldn’t be anything for the detective to get up from.

“Why are you following me, Detective Grayson?” Tim demands, eyes narrowing as he resists the urge to storm away from the older man and continue on his run. “I thought my lawyer made it clear: you people can’t harass me about this case.”

Detective Grayson shakes his head once he’s made it to his feet, looking chagrinned and rather rumpled. “I’m not following you,” Grayson insists, “I mean, I _wasn’t_ at first--” His face goes red and he doesn’t _quite_ meet Tim’s gaze as a sheepish smile tugs at the corners of his wide mouth. “I usually run this way in the mornings and when I saw you, I just… I thought it’d be a good idea to try and clear the air between us. I’m sorry, Mister Drake.”

Tim finds himself making a face at that. “Just call me Tim,” he mutters, already feeling himself starting to warm up to the handsome detective and his charming smile. “Whenever someone calls me Mister Drake, I always wind up looking around for my father.”

The detective looks down at Tim and smiles at him. It’s a good smile with plenty of teeth and it’s a lot nicer to look at than the scenery around them. “Well, Tim,” Grayson says as he wipes his dusty hands off on his black and blue shorts. “I insist you call me, Dick.”

“You’re not serious, are you?” Tim says, snorting softly with laughter before he glances at --Dick-- Grayson’s flushed face from close up and it sinks in that maybe the other man is completely serious. “ _Please_ tell me that’s not your birth name.”

Dick pushes one large hand through his thick black hair and makes a face at Tim with his long nose scrunched up in a way that isn’t wholly unattractive. “What? Of course not,” he says quickly, voice almost a squawking sound as he gapes at Tim. “My name’s Richard, but everyone I know calls me Dick.”

Tim snickers; he can’t help himself. He’s twenty years old, but some things just _are_ funny… Even when they’re really not. “I have no idea how I’m going to say your name without cackling,” he confesses a second later, feeling his face warm in an unbidden blush.

“It’ll take a bit of practice,” Dick says with a wink that makes Tim’s cheeks heat up even more. “Don’t worry. My best friend still has trouble saying my name without laughing and she’s older than me.” He smiles at Tim again and this time when Tim smiles back, the expression feels natural on his face. “Are you going to keep jogging?”

Tim opens his mouth to say something that isn’t utterly inane, but then he notices something about the surrounding forest.

“Do you hear that,” he asks Dick.

“Hear what?” The older man blinks and starts glancing around the clearing. “It’s completely silent right now.”

That’s the problem, but Tim can’t exactly mention that his hearing is good enough that he can pick up on the fact that no living thing in the park is making noise except for the two of them without getting a strange look from the other man. A few minutes ago the sounds of nature were almost deafening in their intensity, but now…

Tim is so busy trying to pinpoint the source of the silence that he almost misses the faint sound of a silencer being attached to a gun.

_Almost_.

“Get down,” Tim barks out, hands already reaching to shove Dick down to the ground. He’s not gentle about it either, but there’s no such thing as being careful when there’s someone watching them with a gun. He can’t pinpoint where the original sound of the gun’s set up was coming from so he turns in tight circles, head tilted up and nostrils flared in order to search for the scent of gunpowder. If Dick wasn’t here or if Tim was the kind of demon that would find nothing wrong with knocking out an… acquaintance, he’d already be in the air trying to find the gunman.

Dick stares up at Tim from his position on the ground, the bright blue of his eyes filled with worry. “Is everything okay,” he says, eyes narrowing when Tim makes a ‘stand down’ gesture with his hands and continues to look around the park clearing. “Y-your eyes--”

Shit. “It’s nothing,” Tim almost snarls, mentally berating himself for being so damn _careless_. “It’ll be fine, I--”

There’s no way that either of them can miss the sharp sound of a gun being fired, but at first Tim can’t tell which one of them got hit. He looks Dick over quickly and is loath to admit that he feels an intense swell of relief when he notices that the other man seems unharmed aside from a spray of blood on his face and a wide-eyed look of fear that seems directed towards--

Tim glances down at his abdomen and grimly takes in the sight of blood soaking quickly into the white material of his tank top. “Oh,” he mutters as the immense blood loss starts to make his head spin. He sits down on the ground as close to the fountain as he can and presses one hand to the wound to staunch the bleeding.

He can already feel the burn of his body working to expel what he thinks is a regular bullet from his side, but enhanced healing is another one of those things that Tim can’t talk about to humans and so there’s no way to comfort Dick as the detective reaches for his service weapon from a holster that Tim shouldn’t have missed.

Dick cocks his weapon and glances around the clearing before crawling across the ground to kneel at Tim’s side. He touches Tim’s face with the hand _not_ holding the gun and tries to get him to focus. “Are you okay, Tim?” he breathes in a worried tone of voice. “I’ll call for help. Backup will get here in a few minutes.”

“No.” It takes some effort, but Tim forces himself to sit up and speak properly. “No backup. No ambulances.” He licks his dry lips and says a silent prayer of thanks that he can’t taste any blood on the tip of his tongue. “You drove here didn’t you? Give me a ride back to my place and I’ll get out of your hair.”

Dick scowls at Tim. “Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed?” he hisses, fingers already sliding down to peel the blood-soaked fabric away from the wound on Tim’s side. “You were shot and-- What the hell is this?”

Tim doesn’t have to look down at where Dick’s fingers are holding his shirt up and out of the way. He knows his body and he knows that the best way that his body heals major wounds is to try and revert to the hardier demonic form. “They’re scales,” he offers, trying not to laugh at the way that Dick’s eyes get even wider.

“No shit,” the older man snaps, fingers pressing into Tim’s wound for a split second before he remembers that the younger man is injured and he pulls them away quickly. “What _are_ you?”

“You won’t believe me if I told you,” Tim mutters, voice tight with pain. He pushes Dick’s hand away and cups his hand over the still-bleeding wound in his side. Underneath his fingers, the crimson scales feel slick and slippery from blood and Tim has to wonder how the blood loss will affect his healing. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

Dick’s nostrils flare with his anger. “Don’t worry,” he snarls, repeating Tim’s words in a voice gone low and harsh. “How the hell am I supposed to stop worrying when you’ve just been _shot_? What if they come back to finish the job?”

Tim shakes his head. “They won’t,” he promises. “This was just a warning.”

“A _warning_ ,” Dick hisses. “If this was a warning, what the hell would an actual attack look like?”

“They would have used silver bullets if they were serious.”

Dick scowls and gently pulls Tim up into a standing position. He seems moments away from simply _picking_ Tim up and carrying him away from the park and with how much pain he’s in, Tim is actually considering letting him.

“I’m taking you back to my place,” Dick utters in a firm tone as he guides Tim back towards the front of the park. “Since you won’t let me call for backup, it’s the least I can do.”

Tim opens his mouth to complain and then thinks better of it. “Fine,” he grumbles, resting most of his weight on Dick’s body as his head spins and his vision goes blurry. “But my place is better armed.”

Somehow, he isn’t surprised when Dick chooses to ignore his muttered words.

* * *

Tim wakes up with Dick’s lumpy leather couch underneath his back and a steady itching sensation spreading over his abdomen. He bolts up --or rather, _tries_ to-- and winds up clutching his stomach and spitting out swearwords as pain tears through his midsection and his vision whites out in a haze of pain.

“Shit,” Tim hears from right next to his ears and then there’s one strong arm banded around his back and the warmth of Dick’s body from right next to his. He finds himself leaning into the touch of Dick’s larger body but then when the other man’s callused fingers brush over bare skin, he notices his state of (un)dress.

“When did you undress me?”

Unfortunately for Tim, what’s supposed to be a confidently posed question comes out in a bit of a high pitched squeak for the brush of Dick’s fingers to the sensitive skin right above the healing gunshot wound on his side. That pesky little biological imperative to find a mate and keep them raises its ugly little head again, flooding Tim’s body with hormones and a desire to tilt his head up and plant a kiss right square on Dick’s soft-looking mouth. Well… more of a desire at any rate.

“Are you okay,” Dick asks and there’s concern enough in the older man’s eyes that Tim feels bad that he’s lost himself in his hormone-induced fantasies. “Is it the bullet wound? Is there anything I can do to help?” He strokes his fingers lightly over Tim’s shivering sides, pressing gently in order to check to see if there’s any swelling that he missed before. “Can you even _take_ something for the pain?”

Tim nods his head, not trusting his voice to cooperate at first as he stares at Dick’s mouth. “I-I’m fine,” he finally gets out. “The pain’s mostly gone now.”

Dick sighs. “Thank God,” he utters, still not removing his hand from Tim’s side. “I was worried that I was going to have to call in a favor with someone. Do you need any help sitting up?” He doesn’t wait for Tim to give him an answer.

Before Tim can even nod his head, he’s being pushed and pulled gently until he can sit with his back pressed to the back of the couch and Dick is pressed so tightly to him on the couch that there’s hardly any room between them. The closeness does nothing to even remotely stop the clamor of Tim’s hormones. Nothing at all. Tim thinks about pushing Dick away and making his excuses so that he can run to the nearest bathroom and force his hormones into submission.

But then it hits him: there’s no reason for him to lie. Not about his heritage or his hormones. Dick has already seen him heal a gut shot and he’s still here. What harm could a little more knowledge about demon physiology and the mating/bonding urges do?

“Y-you wouldn’t happen to be seeing anyone would you,” Tim finds himself asking out of the blue when Dick busies himself with flicking through the channels on his television set. He can’t smell anything aside from Dick’s scent wafting throughout the apartment, but for what he’s going to ask next, he’ll need all of the confirmation that he can get.

Dick glances down at Tim. “Why do you want to know,” the older man asks as a roguish grin curves up his mouth. “Are you trying to ask me out or this some freaky alien thing?” He looks as though he wants to laugh and Tim feels his heart prepare to drop down to his feet. 

But then Dick does something that surprises Tim. He leans forward and presses a kiss to Tim’s slack mouth before pulling away and smiling at the other man.

“I could get fired for this,” he says in an easy tone as though he’s not putting everything on the line for someone that got on his nerves the very first time that they had met. He curls his fingers against the nape of Tim’s neck just underneath the fall of his short hair and smiles. “So is this where you tell me what’s been eating you or do you want to tell me why there’s a gunman out there trying to kill you?”

Oh. Yeah.

Tim’s blush comes back in full force and he ducks his head. “I think the two things are related,” he finally admits as he feels a blush rush all the way up to the tips of his ears. “And I seriously don’t think that you’ll believe me.”

Dick doesn’t look convinced for a minute and he crosses his arms over his chest. “I already sort of think that you’re an alien that’s going to lay eggs in my chest,” he says with a twinkle in his eyes that makes Tim laugh nervously. “There’s no way you can tell me anything that’s weirder than that.” He smiles at Tim again and touches the curve of his left shoulder. “Trust me.”

And so Tim does.

* * *

“Let me get this straight,” Dick says later when they’re sitting on the floor with several containers of Chinese food spread out in front of them. “You and your family are like the demon witness protection?”

Tim nods and reaches for the carton of Szechuan Beef. “Yup.”

“And someone knows that.”

“It looks that way,” Tim agrees far more easily than he should be considering the situation that they’re in. “All of the people that were killed were demons, you know. Your suspect would have been someone with access to those records or a demon of their own.” He uses his chopsticks to dump a large amount of the beef onto his plate and then proceeds to stuff his face as Dick nurses a beer and tries to wrap his mind around the idea. “After all, we recognize our own.”

After a few minutes of Dick watching Tim eat in silence until most of the containers are empty and all of the soda is gone, he speaks up again. “I’m going to get fired aren’t I,” he mutters as he reaches for the beer that Tim didn’t so much as glance at twice. “Shit. You’re a demon and you’re involved in the case.”

Tim pulls a face. “I’m sorry,” he says even though the sentiment feels a bit empty on his tongue because his instincts are all but _screaming_ at him to complete the bonding and fast. “After we find the killer, I can always have my parents put in a good word for you with the force.”

“Just because you want to be my mate--”

Tim cuts Dick off before he can continue. “There is no _wanting_ to be your mate,” he snaps in a tense tone. “I _am_ your mate. It’s that simple. The only difference between this and normal relationships with my kind is that I had to explain to you how things work.” It’s Tim’s turn to cross his arms over his chest and scowl sullenly. “If you get fired and it’s my fault, of course I’ll try to keep you from getting fired. The bond has nothing to do with it.”

Dick shakes his head and then smiles wryly as though he’s a bit ashamed of himself. “I’m sorry, Tim,” he says finally. “I shouldn’t have said that.” He sets his unfinished beer down somewhere where it won’t be easily knocked over and reaches to take one of Tim’s hands in his. “So do you want to tell me more about the bond?”

“I didn’t really explain it very well, huh,” Tim mutters, glancing away from Dick’s suddenly shrewd gaze. “Is there any way that I can just… tell you that it involves us sharing blood and then being able to read each other’s minds without you asking for explanations?”

The face that Dick makes is priceless. Torn somewhere between utter confusion and mild disgust, the expression makes Tim snicker softly and then sigh. “I take it that that’s a no,” he says, keeping his tone as light as he can. “We’re going to have to do the bonding at some point soon.”

Dick makes a sound of agreement and squeezes Tim’s hand gently. “We will,” he promises. “Just… On a day when you haven’t been shot in the stomach.”

Tim laughs. As he leans in to press a kiss to Dick’s cheek, the image on the television screen changes to an emergency news broadcast where a harried reporter is standing in front of a flaming building.

“An explosion in one of the wealthier Platinum Flats neighborhoods as claimed the lives of three people and has left several people injured. Among the injured are Janet and Jack Drake of Drake Industries,--”

“I have to go,” Tim says as he scrambles to his feet. His eyes remain fixed on the image on the screen of what _used_ to be his parent’s house and his sharp nails dig into the palms of his hands. “I’m sorry, but I have to go.” He’s not entirely sure how he’ll get to whatever hospital his parents are at, but he’s going to try even if he has to _fly_ there.

Dick stands up as well and rests on hand on Tim’s trembling forearm. “I’m going with you,” he insists in a soft but steady tone. “I know where they’ll probably take your parents and I can get you in to see them.” He gently pulls Tim away from the couch. “Let’s get you dressed and we’ll head out.”

“Thank you,” Tim breathes, voice shaking from stress. “Can you take me to my apartment first?”

Dick nods his head and then hands Tim a t-shirt and clean shorts. “Yeah,” he says. “What do you need from there anyway?”

Tim glances up at Dick and he doesn’t know exactly what kind of expression is on his face, but it can’t possibly be a good one. “My weapons,” he growls out in a rough tone that sounds like the crunching of gravel underfoot. “They gave me a warning, now I’m going to return the favor.”


End file.
